


Darkest Before Dawn

by Elvendork



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 21:31:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvendork/pseuds/Elvendork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not when you lose something that you realise how much it means. It’s when you get it back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darkest Before Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another plot-less Post-Reichenbach story. It was going to be a 221B, but that _really_ didn't work out...
> 
> I really ought to just bite the bullet and write a full-length one but chances are series 4 would be here before I finished it, let alone series 3.
> 
> Written while listening to Skylar Grey's "Coming Home".

The general consensus among the public as a whole seems to be that it is only when you lose something that you realise how much you needed it in the first place. How much you will miss it. Sherlock had never given the idea a second thought before his supposed suicide; he’d barely even given it a first thought.

Afterwards, though, he finds himself considering it with disturbing regularity.

It takes a long time to stop waiting for John to praise or scold him when he does something impressive or reckless, and even longer for the sharp pang when he is greeted by total silence to subside into a dull ache which he pretends is easier to ignore.

Once, at three in the morning, Sherlock misses his violin with an urgency he had never expected to feel for another living thing, let alone an inanimate object. Then it occurs to him that if he played it, it would only annoy John anyway. Not that that would stop him. It takes almost a full four seconds before he remembers that John isn’t here to _be_ annoyed, and if he had had the Stradivarius in his hand he would have thrown it at the wall in fury.

If he could summon the energy. The lethargy that seeps through his limbs as soon as he recalls his own isolation is so complete that he doesn’t move until long past midday.

Mrs Hudson’s absence is a constant background hum, a _lack_ of noise and fussy, barely-listened-to chatter that is more distracting than her presence has ever been. It is difficult to define exactly, because it is more of an accumulation of tiny, everyday occurrences he never noticed before than any one sudden revelation. When he leaves the milk out of the fridge for too long it goes off, rather than finding its way mysteriously back again. When he doesn’t bother to sleep or eat for days on end there is no one to remind him that even if his body _is_ just transport, it still needs fuel, no one to half force-feed him tea and biscuits and pat his shoulder and kiss his cheek and – be there. When he whirls out of whatever room he happens to be staying in at the time in pursuit of a case – with somewhat less than his usual gusto – there is no one to tut and smile and pretend to disapprove.

When he arrives back, cold and tired, from a long chase, there is no one to laugh with or listen to his explanations, no one who even cares whether or not he makes it back at all because none of them even know he is alive to worry about.

John, Mrs Hudson, and Baker Street itself. He misses them like a lost limb that he keeps forgetting he can no longer use.

He finds himself checking his phone for texts from Lestrade, even though it’s a new phone and a new number that Lestrade would not know even if he was remotely likely to contact him.

He gets bored waiting for new information to trickle in from his various sources and itches to go to the morgue and conduct any number of experiments, all the while not-actually-ignoring Molly.

He finds himself staring at Mycroft’s number on the screen of his mobile and desperately wanting to call it just to hear a familiar voice.

He even, once, almost misses _Anderson_ , if only because a particularly complicated lead comes to nothing and he wants someone to vent his frustration on.

It only takes a few weeks before he wants to go home so badly that he is halfway out of the door before he regains his senses and turns back, locks himself in the hotel room, slumps to the floor still in his coat and scarf and absolutely does _not_ cry.

After that, he thinks the worst is over. He doesn’t miss any of it any less, but he has tested his resolve to its limit and made his decision. He cannot go back. He _cannot_ , no matter how much he wants to, until this is over and they are safe and Moriarty’s network is well and truly finished.

And when it _is_ over – when finally, _finally_ , the last piece falls into place, the last member of the organisation is behind bars and _it is finished_ and Sherlock realises, at last, that _he can go home_ – the relief is stronger by far than any of his guilt or regret has been. He literally cannot stand, and cannot be silent – he is alone in his room staring at the screen of his phone and he _laughs_ , collapses back into a chair and carries on laughing because _it’s finally over_ and the last time he laughed like this was –

John.

He can go back.

He can see John again.

 _He can go back_.

At this point, Sherlock’s mind returns, giddily, to the same idea that has haunted him ever since he left London. He thinks he finally knows what it means when people say that you only realise how much something matters when you lose it. He is wrong.

It’s when he first glimpses London’s painfully familiar skyline that he goes literally weak at the knees and for the first time in his life feels his throat closing up from sheer joy. It’s when he steps into the street and hears it – hears his city for the first time in far too long – that he can no longer contain his grin.

It’s when John stares at him, open mouthed and caught between horror, confusion and ecstasy, for nearly seven seconds, that Sherlock suddenly feels _warm_ for the first time in – he’s actually lost track of how long.

It’s when John’s fist connects with his face and he lets it happen and staggers back and then is tugged roughly forwards into the most painful hug he has ever endured, that he realises he can actually _breathe_ again, and he hadn’t even known he’d stopped.

It’s when his arms rise up of their own accord and wrap around John’s shaking and very _real_ back, that he does, finally, completely understand.

It’s not when you lose something that you realise how much it means. It’s when you get it back.


End file.
